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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774686">Outfox Vol. 1: “Exciting First Issue!” Part 1 - Outfox Returns</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtremistComics/pseuds/ExtremistComics'>ExtremistComics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Outfox [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal, Aphrodisiacs, Attempted Impregnation Seduction, Big Butt, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fingerfucking, Futanari, Muscle Girl, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Parody, Pheromones, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Prostate Milking, Superheroes, Temptation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:20:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774686</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtremistComics/pseuds/ExtremistComics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The grim, strange city of New London is held back from chaos and corruption by the costumed vigilante Outfox, a leather-clad badass who stalks its streets in the name of justice, alone against the forces of evil...or not. Her brooding loner act has been a little silly for the past decade, when she started taking on sidekicks and peers at a rate that's less "solitary avenger" and more "harem anime." But her quest to maintain order as the world gets bigger and weirder is going to take all the help she can get from her allies. They're also all gorgeous women, but she's packing enough dick for all of them.</p>
<p>The first series in my superhero universe, Outfox takes a certain caped hero and his supporting cast as a jumping-off point into a lengthy, plot-driven original story I've been developing extensively (seriously, I have notes for 25 chapters of this motherfucker and 85 characters) that introduces a world of fascinating female superheroes (some totally original, some a little familiar) with all sorts of fascinating genitals (same). Check back later for more, and other series set in this universe and others.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Outfox [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951930</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Outfox Vol. 1: “Exciting First Issue!” Part 1 - Outfox Returns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My city is always cold at night. Lit with electricity from just about every inch, you could mistake it for day, but for the moon above and the cold seeping into your bones. This is a place of madness. I beat it back with every ounce of strength, but I can’t deny my part in nurturing it. The devils of this city saw my ascent and started believing they could fly. A motley lot of people who’d had no ambition before but to breathe heavy into somebody’s phone or rub against people on the subway finally saw what a woman could be if she dared to embody something greater than herself, to represent an ideal, a conviction. They saw at last the power of their own potential, but it’s the most fundamental law of physics that it is easier to ruin and unmake than to build, to create. They all stand with torches over the gunpowder veins of New London, and I am the only one watching the fire. But if it is easier to destroy than to create, then I can unmake the world I have made, I can shape a better one. I can save this city.</p>
<p>“You know you were saying all that out loud, right?”</p>
<p>Carla stands behind me as I crouch at the edge of the roof. She indulges my meandering pretension, but out of fondness for me, not because she is a terribly patient woman. My wife greatly enjoys what we do despite her roguish past, but she is frustrated by the fact that I don’t enjoy it myself. It’s an act of duty and vigilance for me.</p>
<p>“That doesn’t mean it can’t be fun,” Carla chimes in, reminding me that I’m still talking. Lifting a pair of binoculars back up to her eyes, she says, “I still don’t see movement. If she’s in there, she’s alone.” Carla Chacal is the costumed crimefighter Bloodhound, and she was my gravest nemesis once. She would never have referred to herself as a “terrorist,” but the CIA did. To fund her revolutionary activities all over South America, she took to more conventional crime, finding a talent in the vaults and museums of New London for high-class burglary. Fantome’s reign of terror put things in perspective for her. She slowly transitioned into only robbing other criminals, and from there rekindled her passion for justice. Seeing as much corruption in the US as anywhere else, she dedicated her efforts toward building a better world right here, finding plenty of kidneys to punch and eyes to claw among the most wicked of this city.</p>
<p>She is well over six feet tall, and has the steel-cable muscle of a weightlifter. Not a bodybuilder, those are two very different things. Those ever-tense abs and biceps are wrapped up along with the perfect curve of her ass and her almost threateningly pert breasts in a tight burgundy leotard with wrist-length sleeves, her beautiful face hidden by sad necessity behind her jaggedly canine mask. Imposing boots of the same color rise just above her knees, and in my crouching position her thigh, a flawless column of graceful power, sits centimeters from my face. I might not derive the satisfaction my love does from crushing bones and spilling lowlife blood, but going on patrol with a woman so effortlessly majestic, stalking rooftops with her, simultaneously as alone and as exposed as we could possibly be, makes my cock ache beyond measure every time I let myself look at her.</p>
<p>“It’s still early,” I say. “If she really is planning something, it might not start until well after midnight.” Seeing right through me as usual, Carla says, “If you want me to suck your cock, just say so.” Inhaling heavily as I let my face rest against her simply godlike thigh, I smell the faint whiff of her sweat. I am hopelessly addicted to the way her body smells when she’s ready to stomp some sick thug. “No,” I barely get out through a sharp exhale. “You first.” Her original costume didn’t have a convenient snap to open the crotch, but we made sure we addressed that quickly.</p>
<p>As much of a bulge as she displays in her anatomy-lesson-tight leotard, it’s fairly amazing that it isn’t even more prominent. She’s afraid to admit to it aloud, but she’s a good bit bigger than I am, and Catherine had to apply some fairly creative geometry to my suit to make my respectable package look less pornographic while still allowing me a full range of motion in my legs. She drops out like she’s spring-loaded. I lift the tip to my lips, but once any of it makes its way past them the lifting I have to do is over. She is more than sufficiently lifted. I’ve never gotten my lips to the very base, but she loves to see me try. It’s good to be reminded sometimes that there are things I can’t do, and she goes wild for that little gag I let out when I hit my limit. I’m always so proud of myself when I push past that reflex, and I always deflate a little when I realize there is still over an inch left I’m never going to conquer.</p>
<p>Carla is not doubly blessed the way I am, but once my right glove is undone there is still plenty for my fingers to do. I slip index and ring past the entry pretty easily, but she scoffs a little as usual. “That’s cheating,” she says once again. She considers prostate stimulation a trick I do to make this process go faster, but I could gladly bob my head on this monstrosity for an hour. I push her little button because I know for a fact that it makes her cum harder when she gets it from both ends, even if it does also chip away at the duration of the whole affair. But she likes it when I pleasure her for what feels like an eternity, even if it delays the big finish, so I make it up to her by taking every hair’s width of her dick into my mouth I possibly can just before she shoots. Her trembling doesn’t give me much warning this time, and I have to dive down on it so quickly I nearly choke on the tip before she even lets loose. As much as she loves to fill my mouth until it shoots out my nose (literally, but only one time, and I was upside-down), I know nothing compares to spraying it directly down my throat with not a thing in the way. She can unload for nearly ten straight seconds with prostate play, leaving my eyes torrentially watered over by the time I let her slip out so I can gasp for oxygen. Until she lifted her hands, I hadn’t even noticed they’d been pressing firmly on the back of my head. Naughty girl.</p>
<p>After catching her own breath for a second, she says, “You don’t want my mouth right now, do you?” She’s right, but it’s not until then that I realize my fingers are still inside her, and I’ve been gently moving them back and forth the entire time. I gently remove my hand, and I slump back on the floor a little to facilitate some deeper inhales and exhales. I fully intended to get up after not long, but the insatiable Bloodhound notices my cock is already out. It does get a bit cramped in the suit when it’s at full attention, you know. Before I register why, she spins on her heel at great speed and drops herself into a full squat, getting my exposed cock inside her without my having to do something as pedestrian as stop hyperventilating. “Jumping on me ass-first? That’s cheating,” I say. She knows my favorite parts of her pretty well considering the number of items on that list, and how hard it was to decide, and if she wanted to make me bust as quickly as possible, doing Olympic-quality squats on my dick is how she’d go about it. “If I ride you forwards you’re gonna hit my prostate again,” she says with a calm voice that does not match the deep motions upward and back down her entire body is making. “We can’t just fuck up here all night. You want to see me cheat?”</p>
<p>Carla drops with exactly the precision she needs to take me to the base without obliterating my balls, but stays there. Even without the motion, getting this good a look at the museum-quality hind I’m buried in is a revelatory fucking experience. Then she starts. When I describe this woman’s body as an army of divine muscles shrink-wrapped in red-umber skin, it’s easy to forget about one or two of them. Carla starts squeezing gently with muscles I sincerely did not know one could control with that level of precision, applying careful pressure not just off an on but in a gentle roll up my length, then starting over at the base again. “Are you…masturbating me with your ass?” I would say, but after “Are you…” I lose the ability to form words for a second. My rough estimate of how long I can withstand what she’s doing switches very abruptly from being measured in minutes to halves of seconds. Somehow deducing the exact moment I was going to crumble, the pressure at my base suddenly stops being gentle. “Well, hold on,” my tormentor coos. “If you don’t want me to hurry this up, I could keep you in exactly this state for as long as I want.” I do not have a stutter, but what comes out of me resembles “P-p-p-p-please, please, I want to cum. I want to cum so hard up your ass. Please let me cum.” You should have gathered by now that this fails to meet my typical standards of eloquence.</p>
<p>The moment she releases a bit of the pressure she was applying and moves the remainder upward in one last stroke, my vision goes white and a comet strikes Siberia, wiping out life on Earth. I might not be the right person to ask regarding whether that’s really what happened, but in my opinion that’s the only explanation for the Bodhisattva emptiness that thundered into every fold of my brain when she let me release. The first image that forms when my mind stops screaming white noise is of marrying this woman all over again. I’m not being a rose-tinted sentimentalist when I say that none of the people we fuck can do the things to either of us that form alchemically between us when we’re together. We love all of them dearly, but this is not the same. They are brilliant novels, but what we have is a poem. I honestly can’t even tell you why. I love her so, so much.</p>
<p>A noise registers with both our ears that could either be loud and far, or close and muffled. Carla discerns which slightly before I do, but she also didn’t just jizz the universe into being. Either it’s a remarkable coincidence that this happened just after we finished, or I’ve been sitting here for several minutes recovering from it and just didn’t notice. Carla spies motion inside through the binoculars, but the likely occupant of the building still seems to be alone. We are forced to assume she might be leaving, and as she seems to have access to a method of egress we haven’t located this could mean it’s our last chance to make our move. Replacing the admittedly scant clothing covering our most useful pieces of equipment, we make our stealthy approach toward the warehouse below, entering at the end opposite from the noise. We enter with silence as total as we can manage, and with our eyes locked on the shadowy figure at the other end of the room we are certain we can’t be seen. This turns out to be the case, but she didn’t need to see us. Lights illuminate every corner of the interior, and a pink gas surrounds us so quickly we can’t discern its sources. My partner and I anticipate falling unconscious with haste, which is an occupational hazard for a sentinel against evil in a town where the average felony is perpetrated by somebody in a risqué Halloween costume.</p>
<p>The opposite happens. We both become acutely aware, although that might be augmented by the sudden bright lights. Our senses sharpen, rather than begin to blur. “It does still manage to surprise you when I get the drop on you,” the distant figure calls out. The light filling the room confirms that she is who we came here to find, but that’s still the second most relevant situation at hand after “This was a trap,” which takes precedence. The woman I refuse to refer to as Cleopatra turns toward us as my knees get weak, and it doesn’t take too long a glance to see the same is true of Carla. “I don’t know why you’re still shocked when destiny brings you to me, my fair Isis.”</p>
<p>My name is not Isis. Before the pink mist turns me into a space tiger, or whatever ridiculous goddamn thing is about to happen, I should get some facts straight. My name is Zora Miller. You might know I’ve been a multibillionaire since my parents were murdered twenty-three years ago, but you probably aren’t aware I’m also the costumed crimefighter Outfox, she who brought justice and mercy back to corrupt New London just before everything got even worse. You will never hear me call myself a superhero. It’s not some strange sense of pride, I don’t just find the term immature or cringeworthy. I simply don’t apply that term to people like myself who lack superhuman capabilities. Hyperspace is a superhero. Saturnine is a superhero. They’re also deeply strange individuals, but I’m hardly winning blue ribbons for mental health as long as I keep taking to the streets in spandex fetish clothes armored with Kevlar-backed panels of black leather.</p>
<p>There were superheroes around before I took up my quest, but they were few and far between. They were oddities, modern-day legends who differed only from the Loch Ness Monster or Jersey Devil in the respect that they actually existed. To be fair, that’s a notable distinction, but there were never more than one or two active at a time. The impact they had on society apart from individual events like Britannia saving London from the Hexenjagers during the Blitz was minimal, and they were mostly just mopping up messes caused by themselves or other extraordinary phenomena. If no such things existed at all, the world would have turned no more slowly. I don’t know what possessed me to adopt a secret identity and fight crime when I’d never given much thought to actual superheroes, and here I was with no powers and no great catastrophe before me. My war was an eternal story that rarely varied by much. The powerful of New London were using their power to wedge society open and grab themselves more, just like they do in every city on Earth and always have. It was sheer hubris that made me see my task as necessary. Once I had cleared the worst of the worst out of the city, crime and tyranny and greed were just going to slowly seep back in, not looking much different than they did before apart from the names. This time, though, that didn’t happen. Crime came back very quickly, but it resembled what stood before very little. Fantome did for the monsters and maniacs what I did for the armchair vigilantes and righteously indignant youths. Her year-long parade of madness set the precedent that we no longer lived in the same world. In some cities, this meant caped champions of justice bending cars into pretzels and throwing sinister women with arched eyebrows into jails where the inmates wear black and white horizontal stripes and cry “Drat!” and “Curses!” In New London, this meant one day you’d be putting out a fire started by a woman in wizard robes while trying to steal the world’s largest paperclip, and the next you’d be dredging thirty left arms out of the Wynorski River.</p>
<p>This deeply troubled individual is a good example of what my life has become. Liz Maxwell was an ordinary history professor who, one day, became convinced she was a reborn Cleopatra, resurrected and empowered by the goddess Isis to revive her worship in the modern day. She has no memory, she claims, of being Liz Maxwell, and she definitely does have extraordinary, seemingly mystical abilities Maxwell probably did not possess. The rest of the story is a bit much, even in the world we live in now. The so-called “Cleopatra” is also not terribly skilled at what she does, taking up little of my time and attention, but seems convinced that I am “the only one cunning enough to best” her, and that I must therefore be the human avatar of Isis she believes she was resurrected to find and worship. The headline of this Fortean tabloid nightmare is that she wants me to impregnate her with a goddess, so that we and our divine children can rule the world. She also sometimes robs banks with venomous snakes and Technicolor knockout gas, and I’m still not entirely certain what one has to do with the other.</p>
<p>Feeling flushed as my heart pounds and my breathing deepens, I look to my wife to make sure she’s not in worse distress. What I see is that she’s having the same trouble getting her bearings that I am, but more noticeably that the normally polite but visible bulge at the bottom of her costume is in a much more indecent state. Feeling an odd mix of sensations within my own body, I appear not to have noticed that I also had an erection that met or exceeded any I’d ever had. Looking up from the uncomfortable tent between my legs, I see Cleopatra standing directly in front of me, with an overtly amorous expression on her face that would have been more noteworthy if it wasn’t basically how she always looked. It did occur to me, though, that the slight pout of her already striking lips was more enticing that usual. I would blame the desperate throbbing of my ironclad cock, but I’m fairly certain the culprit was whatever chemical mischief had put me in that state to begin with.</p>
<p>“So now you’re resorting to aphrodisiacs,” I try to say without my voice betraying my arousal. “This is just a roofie with delusions of romance, isn’t it?” “Not an aphrodisiac, darling,” she purrs directly into my ear, “it’s just my pheromones, highly concentrated. You’re drowning in lust because you’re drawn to me, whether you admit it or not.”</p>
<p>“Really? Because it seems to be working on me too, Baroness fucking Munchausen,” Carla shoots back, hands on her hips, pointing the evidence of Prof. Maxwell’s trickery right at her. She simply chuckles, responding, “I’m Cleopatra, my dear. Who doesn’t want me? If you do want to join, history’s greatest lover isn’t one for jealousy.” Having undone the flimsy tied band holding her “costume” together, a nearly sheer white robe with vaguely Egyptian decoration that I’m relatively sure is sold as lingerie by online sex shops, she slips the whole affair delicately off her shoulders. She does this exact move every time I encounter her, but as with her sensuous face and the slender body she just unveiled, I’m given a bit more of a shiver by it than I usually am. “This costume wasn’t built to facilitate flagrant displays of arousal quite as much as yours was,” I explain, attempting to justify releasing myself from the crotch of my suit, which becomes painfully restrictive when I’m at “full mast.” My eyes shift slightly to the left to see if my lover is making a face at my unleashing myself in front of a very sick woman who was trying to seduce me with chemical agents, but what I see is Carla releasing the snap on her own costume’s crotch for the same reason.</p>
<p>As I shoot her a quizzical glance myself, Carla responds with, “If you want us to just give the lady what she wants, I don’t mind. It’s not like you’re really going to knock her up with the goddamn Moonchild.” I don’t want to dignify the idea with a response, so I direct it at the villainess herself. “You’re not well, Liz. You’re a lovely woman, but I’m drugged and you’re delusional. I will get you any help you need.” Liz drops to her knees.</p>
<p>“I don’t know if you know this, my goddess,” she says, “but in ancient times Cleopatra was renowned for her skills at fellatio. They spoke of her with fascination as the woman who sucked a thousand cocks.” “I’m pretty sure that’s a myth,” I say, but it comes out quietly enough that I’m not sure she hears, and she definitely isn’t listening. “How many women over the centuries have fantasized about what it must have been like to be sucked off with unprecedented skill by the most powerful woman in the world’s first great empire?” she says. “Are you really going to stand here with that stone fertility idol swinging in my face and say no to a blowjob from Cleopatra?” Her hand already grasping me at the base, she sends a single lick up my entire length, lingering a bit at the underside of my tip. “You really are a goddess.”</p>
<p>My peripheral vision must be going a bit fuzzy, because I don’t notice Carla standing next to me until I feel her thigh touch mine. “If you want her, you’re going to have to wait,” Carla says. “What are you doing?” I ask. “I know you don’t want to do this,” Carla whispers, “let me distract her for a minute.” “I can hear everything you’re saying,” Liz moans, “but there’s plenty of me for both of you and the entire Roman army.” Carla’s formidable dick vanishes entirely. Liz might not be Cleopatra, but if the old stories had any truth to them, they definitely have one thing in common. Carla nearly howls when Liz’s nose hits the dainty patch of pubic hair she lovingly maintains. I’ve never seen anybody take all of her that way. Liz’ lips were always her best feature, not that I was looking, but they’ve never looked more welcoming than they do now, stretched delicately around a sizeable beast like Carla’s. As enticing as her offer had been, I hadn’t questioned my commitment to refusing her until seeing what she was capable of and imagining what my wife and partner must be feeling at the mercy of her talents.</p>
<p>Liz starts to move, and I’ve never seen a human being’s head move with that kind of precision in the service of giving absolute pleasure. Not needing the use of her hands, Liz grasps Carla’s ass with a fervor that must have been painful, Liz keeping her Old Hollywood fingernails impractically long and trimmed into near-talons at all times for the sake of The Look. Apart from the slick slap of moisture here and there, neither of them make a sound, Liz’ perfect technique creating the frictionless glide of a Bugatti engine and Carla unable to speak even to let out moans of rapture. I’m envious of her abilities, but I’m held back from self-conscious angst about my inability to satisfy my love by my greater envy that my cock isn’t in Liz’ miraculous mouth.</p>
<p>I was supposed to be taking this window of time to do something to assist in our capture of this disturbed criminal, but I’m willing to blame my spellbound fixation on the pheromone gas, and not simply the mesmerizing display of a virtuoso courtesan blowing the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen like she’s conducting a symphony.</p>
<p>Carla’s sudden gasps of ecstasy sound like terrified screams, especially without any groans or gasps preceding them. Liz’ motions go from full-contact dives up and down the pole to a single drop back to the base, the full length of my beloved slipping inside with a lack of effort I took as a personal challenge. She knew it was going to happen immediately, and she was ready for it. Letting out a single continuous shout for the duration, Carla experiences what must have been a new innovation in her favorite pastime, ejaculating a pint of semen in a single endless rope propelled by dozens of muscle spasms straight down a woman’s esophagus. This couldn’t have been anything but the Guernica of that art form, the three-minute mile of that sport. If Carla leaves me tomorrow so she can spend the rest of her life scouring the globe in pursuit of something better than that, I will understand. At the very least, she’s going to want to bring this madwoman home with us.</p>
<p>“Fox,” she eventually manages, “you can’t. Don’t say no. You have to at least let her do that for you.”</p>
<p>Liz gently releases her vanquished opponent from her mouth, licking her abused lips and taking a second to resume her normal breathing, before she turns her head, looks up at me as I gaz down at her transfixed, and rather than speaking gives me a look with her eyes that invites me to the festivities. My rigidity has not diminished an ounce, the passage of time outweighed in excess by my awe at the sight I’ve just witnessed. Carla manages to stagger exactly backwards with just enough a grasp on her motor functions to sit on a nearby crate instead of collapsing to the floor. I have enough control over my urges not to say yes to Liz verbally, but from the expression on my face she must know that actively refusing is not on the table either. The first few seconds blur. By the time my brain starts working again, she’s been up and down every inch of me several times.</p>
<p>When we talk about getting “sucked,” the act we’re usually describing involves a lot of rubbing of the penis with the lips and tongue. The actual sensation of suction is present, but is usually not what does the majority of the work. With Liz at work on you, the experience ceases to be a series of rubs and licks and becomes something more akin to the cabin of an airplane losing pressure. No matter how much or how quickly she moves, the vacuum seal her lips create around you never breaks. I understand now why Carla was making so little noise between the initial shock and the very finish. It’s almost too much. It’s almost too intense to be enjoyable. But “almost too good” might not sound as exhilarating as it actually feels to have somebody give you too much pleasure to stand, but dialed back just a hair to keep it at the edge of overwhelming. I can’t believe I’m standing. I can’t believe I can think. And I certainly find it hard to believe I’m withstanding this sort of treatment without instantly dumping the entire present and future contents of my immediately-aching balls into the heavenly comfort of her mouth. When you can focus enough to pay attention, though, you see the real miracle at work. She can sense every little twitch of imminent release that comes over you, and if you watch for them you can find the almost imperceptible pauses in her attention where she deprives you of exactly enough stimulation to stop you from hitting the tipping point.</p>
<p>It sounds like teasing, but it’s hard to say somebody is “edging” you when you still finish in three minutes. When Carla came, was it because Liz miscalculated and let her off too early? Was she going to keep toying with her as long as she could, and had a split-second lapse in her vigilance? Did she intend the process to last exactly as long as she did? Did she decide that was the longest she could withhold the finish before the constant back-and-forth became unpleasant? Does she know the exact optimal time-to-orgasm for a perfect blowjob? Or did she arrive at a certain time after pushing somebody off for a little bit longer, causing them to go totally mad? Is this the absolute limit of how much you can stimulate somebody before they’re permanently reduced to a drooling cock on legs, sitting in the corner chronically masturbating until they starve to death, chasing that feeling of unbearably all-consuming bliss?</p>
<p>After these thoughts pass from my mind, I realize that I’ve spent all that time pontificating as the pleasure of Liz’ efforts empties all other distractions from my head, and I still haven’t cum.</p>
<p>Carla only lasted three minutes. I know my ability to gauge time is probably significantly impaired right now, but this simply has to be longer than that. “She’s really taking her time with you,” Carla comments with post-orgasmic lucidity finally setting in. “She could make you pop off any second.” I want to ask her how much longer it’s been, or scream that I know exactly what is being done to me, thank you. Nothing comes out. I’m beginning to worry I misjudged Liz’ eagerness to finish me off before the frustration of infinite pleasure with zero release reduces me to gibbering, gasping madness. She had no reason to string Bloodhound along, but she may well be intent on keeping me suspended at the brink for as long as she possibly can. I’m the one she’s here for.</p>
<p>Carla smells trouble the moment I do, as synchronized with my instincts as usual. Under the pretense of “helping” me and Liz “enjoy ourselves” better, Carla seductively struts up behind me and puts her hands on my hips. “I’m starting to feel left out,” she sighs. Carla bends down slightly, pressing her stunning breasts into my back and allowing her to reach her hand past my butt and between my legs. Unconcerned that I’m anything but copiously lubricated, she sticks three fingers straight inside my neglected pussy, jumping straight from a gentle first insertion to slamming thrusts in and out. “Lucky girl, getting fingered like a nervous prom date while you get the best blowjob in the world,” Carla says, and despite her efforts to sneak an orgasm out of me right under Liz’ nose her voice conveys a deeply genuine excitement. I am endlessly grateful for the attempted rescue, but Liz’ flawless ability to control my approach means that the added stimulation is just keeping me closer to the edge for longer, but it’s not going to push me past it. My sharp yelps and moans are failing to take the shape of words, so I can’t tell her she’s making it worse. After a minute of expert finger work with no results, however, Carla takes advantage of my heightened arousal to work out a possible solution. In the position she’s in, her fingers are turned the wrong way to give her direct access to my g-spot, but there’s a way she can reach it without making her intentions to clear to the terrible, wonderful maniac tormenting my aching prick with tantalizing brushes of paradise.</p>
<p>Carla slowly pulls her fingers most of the way out of me, then I feel a different sensation entirely as a much larger object makes its way inside. The easiest way to apply sufficient pressure to my g-spot from this position is brute force, hitting every corner of my interior with equal pressure. Her hand enters me to the wrist with an ease we’ve never experienced before, and we have certainly practiced. I feel the triangular wedge her fingers are gathered into curl in on itself to form a fist with a clarity I’ve never felt before, each movement carving its story into my heart in total detail. I rarely have any difficulty climaxing just from the feeling of penetration, especially with Carla, but she knows how to work my g-spot and prostate like instant-orgasm buttons. Rather than thrusting, which is difficult with a fist the size of hers to begin with, Carla mostly just oscillates her hand, using her boxer’s granite knuckles to grind my tenderest of tender bits into a pummeled stupor. If anything would work to release me from Liz Maxwell’s hydraulic vice on my orgasm, it would be this. But that “if” remains profoundly hypothetical even as the combined assault of two masters of their respective tasks keeps me continuously on the exact knife-point of release with a precision I would have thought was already happening until feeling what that’s actually like.</p>
<p>When I start screaming bloody murder, Carla probably thinks for a second that the time has arrived. When her whole hand is in me, though, it’s hard to miss the convulsions of an orgasm, an avalanche of spasms that often threaten to push her out of me, even with the massive breadth of her fist holding her in. If I could see her face, I’m sure she’d look very confused. With tremendous care, Carla gently twists her hand into an easier shape to extract, and slowly leaves me. I hear a thud not long after, and from just the sensations that follow I can surmise that Carla has abandoned subtlety, lying on the floor on her back so that she can get two fingers back into me at the right angle to give her complete control. I’m unsure this will fare much better as a strategy, but her precision strike is joined seconds later by an ambush up the rear, her other index and middle finger slipping with tactful but firm pressure into my other opening seeking my other weak spot. Once the tips of her digits are in exactly the needed places, though, gentleness departs and absolute fury takes over. She alternates between quick bursts of stimulation to one, a quick burst to the other, and a longer stretch of stroking both together. I’ve never experienced this exact technique, but typically when she wants me to finish at a certain moment, all she has to do is turn her back toward me, smack her ass vigorously, and shout at me to “Cum all over me right now! Blow it right across my ass! Let it out now!” I’ve never had difficulty getting there with her that was so severe it necessitated more than that. When you see That Woman beg you to let loose onto That Ass, your body obeys.</p>
<p>I am snapped cruelly back to reality when Liz, grasping the base of my tormented member with a grip less pleasant than her previous tactics, pulls her head back to release me from her mouth entirely. “You can attain release any time you want, my love,” she says, gazing up at me with a sincere longing that almost made her idea of “love” sound genuine and profound to me. “All you have to do is let it out inside your humble priestess. You can do anything you want to me, as long as you finish where I need you the most.” I’d figured that was her game, but there was little in the world that would have made me pull away from what she’d been doing to me. Carla continues her determined work, but Liz knows how to use even tiny flutters of discomfort that barely even qualify as painful to rip away any climax she begins to stir in me. But as easy as it is for her to break my concentration, a practitioner as skilled at inducing climax as Liz is at withholding it is preparing to break her own concentration. I feel Carla’s fingers leave my quivering vagina slowly enough that Liz might not notice, and hear a slight gasp that indicates they’ve found another home. Liz seems more flattered than suspicious, but the great Cleopatra is nothing if not confident that she’s constantly a step ahead. Liz coos, “Your fit little Anubis is quite talented, my beautiful Isis,” the accelerating cadence of her speech and her very breathing indicating even that quickly that sensation was building rapidly within her. “You attract all the finest lovers, pull them in from the far corners of the world, just like your queen does.” Her voice had audibly deepened, and there were sharp exhales and inhales every few words. All the while, Carla’s direct manipulation of my prostate continues, but so does Liz’ steel grip on my ability to relieve the mounting pressure.</p>
<p>Liz gives me a look that suggests she intends to needle me further into giving her what she demands, but the words don’t come, crowded out by whispers and groans of increasing pace and volume. As she suddenly lets out a louder, less restrained yelp, her hand yields in its steady press for just a little too long. I’d yet again denied her the chance to be lovingly fucked by her goddess, but we climaxed at exactly the same moment all the same. I wouldn’t have believed just half an hour earlier that the moment I had with Carla on the roof would be the second best orgasm of the night, but time and history professors with Napoleon delusions make fools of us all. Anywhere but a warehouse, I’d be hitting the ceiling. Hopefully whatever’s in these boxes is waterproof and can’t get pregnant. My knees give out, sending me to my ass. Fortunately, Liz is still convulsing with pleasure. Her hair-trigger sensitivity makes the idea of being inside her intriguing, but if I resisted while she was carpet-bombing me with denied climaxes I think I will continue to stay strong. Carla gets to her feet before I do, despite a lot of my weight having just landed on her good knee. She gets a pair of cuffs on the squirming mass of overstimulated flesh still giggling and kicking on the floor.</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t say that was easy, but-“</p>
<p>“The tape!” I shout. “Get her mouth!”</p>
<p>“Asdvaran!” Liz shouts. The lights go out. We’ve checked, and the words she uses are not Egyptian. As far as we can tell, they’re gibberish, but fortunately she seems to believe she has to say them to use her powers. This gives us an advantage when we have to apprehend her, but it’s been a while since Bloodhound came with me to snatch a two-bit player like Cleopatra and she does tend to underestimate the small fries.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Carla says, diving to the ground blind to try to pin down our captive. I hear the desperate skittering of a naked woman in handcuffs, a sound I am more familiar with than most, but she gets to her feet and takes off running before I can move my exhausted post-coital frame into a standing position. Despite being prone on the ground after landing on it pretty hard, the incomparably athletic Carla is upright before I am. Trusting her to cover more ground than I can, I let her run after the fleeing villain while I contact the team via my earpiece.</p>
<p>“Silver, this is Outfox. Lock Bloodhound’s location and get Sparrow and Foxfire where she is ASAP, preferably coming from the opposite direction.”</p>
<p>“Roger, Outfox. They’ll be there quick as we can manage, but Sparrowhawk is nearby. She’ll be there first.” Mission control, codename “Silver Fox,” is Lady Catherine Renarde, who was the chief of security at my parents’ company and was permanently assigned to their detail. She was also my godmother. She looked after me and my sister when they died, and since that day has been the closest thing we had to a mother, especially Alice. I left home only a few years later, sneaking away with a briefcase filled with more money than clothes. When I came back, we were both adults, but Catherine felt no less responsibility to look after me, especially when I started strapping leather to my tits and karate-kicking loaded guns out of the hands of dangerous criminals.</p>
<p>I’m damn lucky she’s in the area, but I’m not surprised Sparrowhawk happens to be on patrol. Sierra Fletcher seems to have very few interests beyond putting herself in danger and shooting arrows at a photograph of her ex-supervillain mother. She isn’t affiliated with our little ad hoc team anymore, but we keep tabs on her and she gladly takes assignments where we need an extra set of hands. She’s also still dating Kelly, no matter how bad an idea I think that is.</p>
<p>Once I’m back out of the warehouse, I hear footfalls that make it clear Bloodhound is still grounded. I sink my retractable grapple into a chimney on the lowest roof I can reach from here and zip up to a higher vantage point. Carla has a good head start on me, but Liz still has a head start on her, so the best way I can help snare her is to ignore the buildings entirely. Sticking to rooftops, I can clear distance between myself and Liz as the crow flies rather than winding through alleys and breaking my sprint only to parkour-vault over a dumpster. If Carla can manage that after a blowjob from the alleged queen of Egypt, she’s welcome to it, but this seems more within my wheelhouse. She’s been doing this for almost twelve years just like I have, but she’s a couple years younger than me, and she still works out like she’s sitting behind a desk the rest of the day. Hunting creeps and monsters is enough exercise for me.</p>
<p>At this hour, there are no cars out, especially in this area, except occasional trucks. A nude woman in handcuffs with a streak of semen down her chest and too much running mascara crossing the street at a pace slightly beyond a jog is easy to notice, so once I’m near her I spot her easily. I can’t leap across an entire road, so I prepare to jump down to the ground, and in the second I pause I see Liz nearly get knocked into next month by a speeding motorcycle, which overshoots her deliberately before turning ninety degrees to skid to a halt. Sierra is too big a nerd to resist pulling off a perfect Kaneda slide every chance she gets. The risky maneuver puts Liz off-balance for a second, but not long enough that she doesn’t disappear down the nearest alley before Sparrowhawk can grab her, putting exactly as much distance between the target and Sierra as there would have been between her and I if I had been able to get down from the roof without getting into the path of an oncoming motorcycle. Good work, Sierra.</p>
<p>Her path clearer now, the frighteningly fast Bloodhound actually manages to catch up to Sparrowhawk, splitting away from Sierra’s direct route to head Liz off from another angle. Once I’m across the street, I make my way back to the rooftops on the other side, eventually using my more direct path to reach the point where Liz would be. The problem is, she isn’t there. In the denser maze of paths here, we’ve lost her.</p>
<p>“Silver,” I say into my commlink, “we’re still going to need backup here.”</p>
<p>“Trackers say Sparrow and Foxfire are there,” Catherine says. “Have you not seen them?”</p>
<p>“This place is a fucking mess,” Foxfire’s voice rings out a little too loud in my ear. “Where the hell am I going?”</p>
<p>“Keep your heading, Foxfire,” Sparrow says. “There are four of us. We can’t all find her.” Kelly is a lot calmer than Foxfire. Kelly Gander is the third associate of mine (the term “sidekick” has such a frivolous feeling) to use the name Sparrow. Her longtime girlfriend Sierra was the fourth, briefly, but she lasted about six months. As of this year, Kelly has actually used the name longer than either of the first two. The other Sparrows I found at very difficult times in their lives, desperate for something to give them a place in the world. Kelly, on the other hand, just seems to have spent the last eleven years desperately wanting to be Sparrow, and for the last five she’s gotten her wish. The others moved on, not just because they felt they’d become too old to be a “sidekick” but because we grew apart as people. Kelly, if anything, seems to have grown closer to me over the past few years. I have a feeling she’s going to be Sparrow until she’s Outfox. I’m only 34, but people without superpowers don’t exactly fight crime in a glorified gimp suit until they can collect Social Security. I don’t know how much longer this outfit will stay on one person.</p>
<p>“I’ve definitely tripped over this same goddamn trash can lid twice now. I’m going in circles,” Foxfire shouts. “How?” Sparrow asks. “I told you to keep moving straight ahead.”</p>
<p>“I ran out of alley, smartass! I turned around and took another path! We have eyes on Nefer-tittyfuck yet?”</p>
<p>Foxfire is Naeva Abadi. If I told you she was an orphan raised by the modern-day remnant of the Knights Templar to take over as their leader, until her adopted mother left the group to start another, even weirder cult, and she rejected both to kick ass in black vinyl under the name of a hero who almost got murdered for working with me, how much more explanation would you need?</p>
<p>Naeva has an attitude, but she’s much more skilled at combat than she is terrible at taking any orders that don’t involve putting boot to face. I’m sure Fantome and a litany of other psychopaths would love to cripple or kill another Foxfire, but I’d like to see them try to get the upper hand on her. She’s a good complement to Kelly, who holds back in a scrap more than somebody with her upper body strength needs to, but makes up for Naeva’s lack of finesse. It’s not intelligence she lacks, she’d just rather solve problems by breaking their ribs.</p>
<p>“Well, there she is,” Carla sighs. By process of elimination, I can intuit what’s happening in front of her, especially with “Cleopatra” as the target.</p>
<p>From the edge of another rooftop, I can see Sparrowhawk on the ground, legs apart, with a squirming Elizabeth Maxwell, still shackled, writhing on top of the fully-clothed Sierra. She has her arms wrapped around Liz as the nude villainess kisses her passionately, Sierra’s legs kicking obscenely as her hips roll back and forth, yearning overtly for something with a little more kick than first base. Trying to initiate that escalation herself, Sierra reaches between Liz’ legs from over her butt, slipping a finger or two into her. I don’t know what she expects, as I’m confident if Liz’ hands were free she would already be giving Sierra whatever it is she’s hoping to coax out of her. Liz squirms upward on her lycra-sheeted vigilante bed, allowing Sierra easier access to her hungry twat and letting Liz grind her knee into the hip-hugging panties Sparrowhawk only wears under her short skirt because we asked her to. Crossing the line from “this might be a bad time to start making out” into “now you’re just fucking in an alley,” Bloodhound pulls the insatiable villain off the eager heroine.</p>
<p>“Ismaldi-“ Liz spits, failing to complete one of her magic words before a once-bitten Carla slaps a strip of foxtape over her mouth. Yes, we’ve prepared a special gagging tool just for Liz and her incantations; kinksters at home should bear in mind that actual duct tape is not a safe bondage tool and can leave serious damage to skin. Even our bespoke tape isn’t the ideal solution, but getting a gag on a woman who can light you on fire in less than five syllables is nasty work. Liz would rather use seduction as her weapon than potentially lethal sorcery, but she will bite if she’s cornered.</p>
<p>Foxfire helps Bloodhound and I escort the captured Liz to our armored transport vehicle, the Henhouse. This would have been easier if she hadn’t gotten away from the warehouse, because we’re now nearly a mile from where I left the truck. Kelly and Sierra tell us they’re going to get Sierra’s motorcycle out of the street, but as that would have put them on the same heading as us, it’s fairly clear they’re sneaking off into one of the remote convolutions of this network of crossing alleys so Kelly can relieve Sierra of the tension she’d built up in the skillful clutches of our entirely non-Egyptian friend.</p>
<p>We load erstwhile history professor Elizabeth Maxwell into the Henhouse without incident, and after Bloodhound’s marathon sprint and my debilitating orgasm, we bicker over who can stand to drive until Naeva wordlessly snatches the keys from my hand. I sit upright in the backseat of the truck’s front cab while Carla takes a well-deserved nap with her head on my lap, quite a cute visual considering she’s got multiple inches of height and thirty pounds of muscle on me. After a night surely less grueling than some but still hectic and frustrating, the silence is nice. In this rare quiet moment, I let myself remember the reward waiting at the end of my longest days, a good night’s sleep between two nude women who adore me, the titanic might of Carla on one side, the lithe frame and fawning devotion of Kelly on the other. By the time we’re both home, Kelly is going to be in a good lather even if Sierra reciprocates her favors, and no matter how tired I am I know my Sparrow is going to get me stiffer than the Damiano Bridge even if she has to damn near bite the thing off. Naeva is still staying with us, and might want to work off some tension too, but when she gets this testy she usually just wants to crawl into bed alone and beat off with violent intensity to a few grunting, spasmodic orgasms. I’ll tell Catherine to change her sheets tomorrow, and if she knows Foxfire’s in one of her moods again she might even be able to help her calm down better than she helps herself.</p>
<p>Sometimes I actually miss crouching at the corner of a roof, a nomadic gargoyle watching the city gorge itself sick with vice and bedlam, with nobody accompanying me but Catherine in my ear and the distant music of car horns and shattering windows. I felt stronger when I was doing it myself, but I wasn’t. What takes courage is giving yourself to somebody, and that sacrifice of control is an investment that returns greater confidence and conviction than the power you have to give up to embrace it. Carla smirks at me when I play the brooding loner. That façade is an asset in my line of work, but in my soul and in my bed, I will never be alone again.</p>
<p>“You know,” Naeva says, “none of this would’ve happened if you’d just fucked the poor girl.”</p>
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